


The Long and Lost

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 17:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6161095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The attack on the radio tower is going as planned, but Locus finishes off Wash</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long and Lost

This is what you know about Wash.

He’s shorter than you, but not by much. He thinks drills are the best way to start a morning, and has decided to force this way of thinking on the rest out you by forcing laps every day you were stranded in that damned canyon. He cares about his men, not enough to do stupid shit for you, but enough to look at that weird rash you’ve been fretting about for weeks and to endure you going through your entire collection of Junior wallet photos. 

In short, Wash is a good man. At least, better than most of the fucks you’ve encountered in your lifetime. And because he’s a good man, the kind of man who tries not to laugh at your stupid pick-up lines, you’re happy to know stupid shit about him, to use up precious brain cells to chronicle how his favorite Superhero is Batman and his nightmares are better when you crank the air conditioning in the base. 

This is what you didn’t know about Wash; his hair isn’t naturally blonde.

You don’t know about this part until he’s dead. 

You’re not sure how you notice this out of everything, because Wash is on a fucking metal slab in front of you, beat to a kind of hell they didn’t teach you about in Sunday school. But you notice it none-the-less, the brown lurking in the Freelancer’s hair, the beginnings of the blonde washing away.

__ _ No hair dye in Fed turf _ , you think and feel terrible about it because Wash is dead, Wash is dead in front of you, Wash, the asshole who you died because of your stupid plan, and all you can think of is his access to hair dye. 

Carolina is in front of you, which is a surprise. You thought she was going to book it as soon as she saw Wash, that she’d become a ghost in the wind once more with Church on her shoulder like the world’s worst guardian angel. But she’s still here, standing in front of Wash’s slab just like you.

You wonder if she blames you for this. She should. You fucked it up. You fucked it up and Wash is dead. 

“ _ Looks like you really fucked up _ ,” Wash’s voice rings in your head, and you wonder if you’re going to spend your life haunted by his ghost just like he was haunted like his own. 

“Captain Tucker?” Doctor Grey says that. She sounds all concerned and you hope you aren’t crying because you thought you ran out of tears at hours ago. The wetness on your cheeks tells you differently. You wipe them away. “Do you need anything?

You want to laugh. Need anything? You need too many things to count. You need the new wound in your side Felix gave you to stop hurting, you need Caboose to stop looking like a kicked puppy, you need Carolina to say something instead of staring at Wash’s body like it’s not really there. You need Tex to show up out of nowhere and to help you get an upper hand in this winning war, you need to talk to your son to remind yourself he’s safe, you need to know how to kill a man in twenty different ways so you can stand a chance against Locus. You need a night’s full of sleep, a full meal that isn’t rationed, for Grif to stop being so nice to you like he’s worried you’re gonna shatter. But mostly?   
You need Wash back.

“Fuck it if I know,” is what you say, because that’s shorter, that’s easier than flooding the room with emotions. You leave as quick as you came, turning on your heel, fleeing from the reality you want to erase. You don’t think of where you’re going.

You find yourself in the training room. You sword is heavy in your hands. 

By the end of the day, you have beheaded every dummy the New Republic owns. 


End file.
